


sal ahora

by Akane21



Series: sol de ayer [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor Violence, Mutants, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27357208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akane21/pseuds/Akane21
Summary: Damon sets out on a mission to investigate the abandoned research center, now infested with deadly creatures, and bring back whatever valuable data he manages to find. The usual routine—get in, get out, blow things up along the way.But this time he’s not going alone. And seriously, why does this creepy mutant guy keep calling himDeidara?
Relationships: Deidara/Gaara (Naruto)
Series: sol de ayer [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1998046
Kudos: 8





	sal ahora

**Author's Note:**

> you could probably guess from the summary that something was up with the characters’ names. and, well, since it’s a reincarnation!AU, they do have different names. I think it’s easy to understand who’s who, but just in case:  
> Damon — Deidara (obviously)  
> Sōsuke — Sasuke (even more obvious, huh)  
> Samantha/Sammy — Sakura  
> The First — Gaara  
> and these people aren’t present in the story, but they’re mentioned briefly:  
> Flai — Fuu  
> North — Kakuzu  
> and Payne is quite self-explanatory.
> 
> _sal ahora_ means _come out now_.

“Can you be any slower?” Damon taps his fingers on the wall impatiently—the sound of metal on metal echoes loudly in his ears; it’s unpleasant, but that’s his goal.

Sōsuke winces painfully, his chapped lips twisting, but still doesn’t look at him.

“Stop,” he says dryly, irritably. “You’re making it difficult for me to concentrate.”

Damon sighs loudly but obeys. Not out of kindness, no; it’s just that he needs Sōsuke, and even though the guy’s an arrogant bastard, he’s one of the few smugglers who can get the meds and equipment Damon needs—and he’s the only one who is willing to work with the Dawn.

Damon had always been lucky to find himself in a _bad company_.

His current one is actually a group of outlaws, almost equated to terrorists; though if he’s to believe Payne’s propaganda speeches, they’re for saving the world. In a peculiar way.

Damon couldn’t care less about the noble goals these guys are probably just using as an excuse; but they give him the opportunity to blow things up and some sort of protection against the Federation.

“Here, your stims,” Sōsuke hands him a package with a dozen ampoules, and says at his disappointed look, “It’s all I was able to get without arousing suspicion. It’s Oasis’ latest development. Stronger effect, but also more dangerous consequences if you overdose. If I were you, I wouldn’t take more than one dose every two days. But it’s up to you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Damon ignores him, hastily shoving the package into his bag; it’s less than he expected, but it’ll do. “What are you so busy with?”

“I’m working on something,” Sōsuke replies evasively, and he’s never been the talkative one, so his next words come as a surprise. “Want to see?”

Damon shrugs but nods. Not like he’s in a hurry. Sammy didn’t set a specific time, and he’s sure the world won’t collapse if he stays a while.

Sōsuke takes a metal box that looks vaguely like a holoprojector—very roughly made—and switches something on the panel, turning off the lights. Damon looks at him blankly but doesn’t comment.

After a couple minutes of quiet, irritated mumbling—something doesn’t work?—Sōsuke finally triumphs over his invention. The indicator light blinks a couple times—and Damon freezes.

It really is a projector—and it shows stars, so many stars and planets; it’s like it’s the whole galaxy—and maybe it is. For a moment, Damon feels like he himself is in the vast darkness of space, moving through it; like he can touch one of the stars closest to him—but his fingers go through the hologram, and the illusion breaks.

And yet it’s... _beautiful_.

Damon would never have thought that Sōsuke can create something like this. In fact, he never thought of him as someone who could appreciate the beauty of the world.

“What do you think?” Sōsuke’s voice sounds a little nervous—if Damon hadn’t known him for so long, he wouldn’t have noticed.

Damon pretends to be thinking, biting the tip of his tongue.

But in reality, he’s looking at the stars in silent admiration.

“We just need a supernova explosion here,” he says casually.

And then one of the distant start flashes brightly, almost blinding him—and this illusion is almost real; speechless, Damon looks and still can’t believe his eyes.

Sōsuke chuckles, turns off the projector and flips the light switch again.

“Almost perfect, hm.” Damon blinks as his eyes adjust to the normal light—but he still sees the exploding star, more beautiful than ever in its last moment of existence.

“I’m glad you approve.” Sōsuke strokes the smooth metal surface almost lovingly. “I’ve spent more than a month on it. Getting the details, configuring the display...”

“And why do you need this?” Damon wonders. “To use as a night light?”

The look Sōsuke gives him is annoyed and, for some reason, slightly embarrassed.

“It’s not for me. It’s... for Flai.”

Damon whistles; but to be honest, he’s not that surprised. This story—for those who know—is like those old dramas that lasted for hundreds of episodes. Each time Sōsuke appears at the main base, everyone makes a bet whether North will kill him or not for trying to hit on his dear daughter.

So far, Damon wins, betting that he’ll try, of course, but Sōsuke will be too fast to catch.

“Careful,” he still advises. “You chase after young girls, you risk losing your arms, hm.”

Sōsuke chuckles. “Speaking from experience?” and he nods at Damon’s own prosthetic arm.

Damon snorts in frustration—that’s another reason he hates Sōsuke.

“It was an accident.” Of course, not really an accident; he just miscalculated the power of the explosion and the time it would take to get away. But it was worth it—oh, yes.

He closes his eyes, returning to that day for a moment. Oh, Federation remembered him well after that.

Sōsuke rolls his eyes but then turns serious again.

“As you say. Now, if you’ll be so kind to get out—I have other clients coming here soon. Trust me, you don’t want to meet them.”

Damon nods; he’s not eager to find out who these clients are. Probably someone from the Federation, or local bandits. Sōsuke couldn’t care less who to work with, he doesn’t refuse any job as long as he gets paid—but that’s probably a good trait. At least you always know what to expect from him, and he does his job brilliantly.

Damon puts on his helmet, updates the settings just in case, and, without saying goodbye, leaves the smuggler’s hideout.

The sun shines bright, as always, there are no cloud in the alarmingly blue sky, and the sand sinks under his heavy boots. Just the right weather for another crazy venture, Damon thinks as he heads toward the car. He looks around—there are no sombras around yet, which is good. Maybe they’ve found an easy prey—some overly brave idiot who decided to stick his head beyond the protective walls, or some bandits.

What matters is that this prey isn’t him.

Damon gets behind the wheel and quickly texts Samantha, _I’m on my way._

He doesn’t know what exactly she wants from him, but somehow he’s got a feeling that it will be quite... interesting.

***

“Oh, Damon!” Samantha rushes toward him as soon as the heavy steel doors close behind his back.

She looks excited about something; her eyes glisten feverishly, her usually smooth light-pink hair is disheveled, and for her, always so collected and calm, it’s something new.

“Hey, Sammy,” Damon says, taking off his helmet and shakes his head, inhaling deeply.

Sammy’s place is pretty cozy; the benefits of civilization. Even though it’s just a room above the research lab. Damon would like to live in a place like this, but he has to settle for occasional nights at the base and frequent nights in the camps, in constant fear of the generators shutting down and the forcefield which protects them from the sun and radiation getting disabled.

Well, he doesn’t have much choice.

“So what did you want to talk about?” he asks.

“A moment, come here,” Samantha says hastily, pulls him by the arm. “I don’t have much time, Dr Senju might suspect something if I stay too long, so I’ll try to explain quickly.”

Damon follows her.

Samantha is one of the best cybernetic doctors in the Federation, and she works with Dawn because of some personal beliefs. Damon works for Dawn because he has nowhere else to go.

In a way, he envies Sammy and isn’t ashamed to admit it; after all, her life is certainly easier and safer.

But his is much more interesting, and that has to mean something.

“This research center was abandoned a few months ago,” Samantha says, pointing to a place on the map. Immediately, a translucent three-dimensional model of a half-destroyed building appears. “Or rather, all the personnel was killed or vanished without a trace. The Federation has given up trying to get there—it’s an anomalous zone, the sombras are swarming there, coming from all over the area. We don’t have that many people to risk them for some unknown data...” Samantha shakes her head. “I agree with that. But Payne... he thinks that there’s something important there, and he doesn’t want it to fall into the hands of the Federation... or go to waste.”

Damon frowns. An anomalous zone, dead or missing personnel—doesn’t sound very encouraging, especially considering her words about the Federation with its resources dismissing the idea as hopeless. On the other hand... Damon had long forgotten what it’s like to be afraid, and he isn’t used to backing down.

“If I find something interesting, hm,” he asks casually, “I can blow the whole place up, right?”

Samantha shakes her head, faking a frown, but it’s obvious she’s hiding a smile.

“Of course, Dae.” He grimaces slightly but doesn’t correct her—after all, they’ve known each other for quite a while, so Sammy gets away with things like this. “What matters is the information, some research... anything, I don’t even know what might be there.”

“But how do I get there? I’m tough, sure,” Damon grins, “but if that place really is full of sombras, I doubt I can do it alone. Or will you send an elite squad of Federation soldiers to help me?”

Samantha snorts, folding her arms. Yeah, it’d be foolish to expect that—but she must have some sort of a plan. Maybe she knows some secret entrance or can suggest a diversion so that the creatures don’t interrupt his mission.

But she surprises him.

“No. There will be... someone to help you,” she hesitates a little. “But I assure you, he’s worth an army.”

“Really?” Damon gives her a skeptical look. “Well, who is it?”

“The First.” Samantha pauses again but then, seeing his blank stare, sighs heavily. “Damon, don’t you know who you’re working with?”

“Enlighten me,” he says.

“You know that there are different types of mutants,” she begins with another sigh. “Minor mutations, such as unusual hair or eye color—like mine—aren’t classified as anything. Other mutants are divided into three categories. Right now, there are nine mutants of the third, strongest category known—you’re well-acquainted with one of them.”

“What...” Damon trails off, realizing. “Flai.”

“Yes,” Samantha nods. “She’s The Seventh. They had no names, only numbers. I wasn’t allowed near them, so I don’t know that much about them... but still. I helped The First escape from the research center two years ago. He refused to join Dawn, but he contacts me sometimes, so I asked him to help with this task.”

“And he agreed, just like that.”

Damon isn’t sure what he thinks about it all—he doesn’t despise the mutants like some do, but he still isn’t ready to trust one of them so quickly. Flai is an exception only because he’s known her since she was a child; and even she is far from harmless. The way she can rip people’s heads off... though it must run in the family. Damon grimaces—yeah, the perfect thing to think about. Disgusting and lacking any aesthetic. It’s sure a pity that Flai doesn’t appreciate the beauty and effectiveness of explosions.

“It wasn’t that simple, of course.” Sammy closes her eyes and rubs her forehead, and only now Damon notices how tired she looks—like she hasn’t slept in days. “But he’s grateful to me, so... consider it a debt paid back.”

“So when am I leaving?” Damon changes the subject, getting right to the point.

“Tomorrow,” Sammy looks back up at him. “I’ll go with you to the rendezvous point—without me, The First won’t even talk. And then... then the two of you will be on your own.”

Damon nods slowly.

“You know, this whole thing sounds like suicide.” He catches Samantha’s worried look and grins widely. “I like it.”

***

This ‘First’ definitely made them run—or, well, drive around quite a lot. Still, Damon feels frustrated. Safety above all, sure, but they had been circling the desert for hours, following the vague instructions of a suspicious mutant, and only after that he finally gave them his coordinates.

“He has reasons to be careful,” Samantha says when Damon snaps, voicing his irritation.

She’s got a point, but Damon is so fed up with this chase, so sick of the sun shining in his eyes, that he wants to take it out on someone.

Fortunately, in the middle of the way they come across a pack of sombras who run like crazy, as if scared by something—someone? And Damon takes great pleasure in blowing them up with precisely aimed grenade, ignoring Sammy’s reproachful look.

Yeah, yeah, he risks drawing attention—other sombras, if they’re around, or people—again, if there are any here.

To be honest, he doesn’t care.

The First is standing with his back turned to them; he’s wearing unsightly gray-brown rags that barely resemble normal clothes, not a hint of armor—not even a couple protective plates, although to survive outside the forcefield one would need a full armored suit. Not to mention the sombras.

It’s as though he doesn’t notice them approaching; and Damon’s words somehow get stuck in his throat when he sees the bodies of Federation soldiers lying across the sand. Their armor is crumpled and twisted, like tin cans—and there’s so much blood that the sand looks red.

Just like The First’s short hair—unnaturally bright color, one of the indirect signs of a mutant.

An unpleasant chill runs through Damon’s body, and he looks at Samantha; he can’t see her expression behind the helmet, but she seems nervous too.

Well, if this guy is that strong, the mission will be easy.

“Show your faces,” The First says suddenly, in a low and even voice, not hurrying to do the same.

Samantha shrugs and whispers quietly, “He’s paranoid. Don’t argue.”

She takes off her helmet first, and Damon follows her example after a small hesitation.

The heat almost blinds him for a second; Damon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them again. Even under the protection of the forcefield, he usually prefers to keep his helmet on; the sun seems to go through even the transparent barrier, scorching, burning.

Dawn’s base has a significantly more powerful forcefield, just like the smaller settlements he’s visited. But he doesn’t have much choice, and there’s no better option for temporary outposts, so this will have to be enough.

The First turns to face them, and Damon freezes when he sees his face. There’s something about him that immediately gives away his _inhuman_ nature, even if Damon didn’t know that already. Pale skin, dark circles under the eyes—and his eyes, ice-blue, without pupils and completely blank. Damon doesn’t want to look into these eyes, especially when there’s a flicker of recognition in them; and instead looks at the scar on his forehead.

Rough, jagged lines of old cuts that make up some kind of hieroglyph; Damon was never good at languages, especially considering that everyone has been speaking one universal language for a very long time.

“Sa...mantha,” The First says, and Damon can’t help but notice a strange hitch—as though he’s forgotten her name and barely remembered it. “And...”

His pale eyes move over Damon, as if appraising, with slight curiosity, and at the same time—indifferently.

Damon grimaces but says nothing.

“Deidara,” The First finally decides.

Huh, he almost got it right. Damon grins.

“Not quite, hm. Damon.” And he holds out his mechanical hand, ignoring the unusually long response of the prosthetic, only thinking vaguely how it’s a bad time; but it will probably last until they finish the mission. He also thinks that he has to act friendly to gain his favor. Or something like that. At the very least, Damon wouldn’t want to anger him.

The First stares at his hand for a few seconds, and then turns to Samantha, ignoring the gesture completely. “You wanted to meet. What do you want?”

“We need your help,” she begins hastily.

She explains everything to him, in a long and confusing way; The First shows no interest in her words, as if hardly listening.

Damon isn’t exactly angry now, but it’s hella unpleasant, being ignored. Though it might be for the best. This mutant clearly isn’t very sane... and he _is_ very dangerous. He shouldn’t let himself forget about that.

Samantha starts repeating herself, visibly nervous, and The First raises his hand, making her go silent. Finally.

“I’ll help,” he says dryly. “Because I owe you.”

Sammy lets out a sigh of relief, and Damon realizes that she probably wasn’t that certain that The First would agree to this. But luck seems to be on their side today.

“Thanks,” she smiles wearily. “You don’t know how much this means—”

“No matter.” The First raises his hand again.

For a moment, Damon thinks that he sees a glint of gold in his eyes—but when he looks closer, there’s nothing there. Weird. It’s probably the sun. Or just his imagination.

“You.” The First turns to him, staring right at him with these creepy eyes. “Do you know the way?”

“Yes, Sammy gave me the coordinates,” Damon says, and before he can finish, he is cut off quite abruptly.

“Then go.”

Damon looks back at Samantha, but she only smiles, as if trying to reassure him. It doesn’t work. At all.

But he sighs, puts his helmet back on, and hurries after this crazy guy.

Yeah, it’s gonna be fun.

When they get to the edge of the forcefield [when they’re about to leave the shelter of], Damon finally realizes something.

“You’re not wearing any armor.” He looks The First over.

“Yes,” he nods indifferently.

“You know that the sun will burn you in a matter of minutes, even if you’re immune to radiation?” Damon asks.

The First doesn’t reply, though the corner of his mouth twitches weirdly, nervously. He only steps forward, passing through the barrier before Damon can stop him—

And nothing happens.

He just stands in the open, in the rays of sun that burn every living being except sombras; and he doesn’t writhe in pain, no burns appear on his skin, as though he’s still in the safe zone.

Or as if the sun suddenly became safe.

Unable to utter a single word, Damon steps toward him.

“You’d better not try it,” The First says in the same indifferent tone.

Damon chuckles, failing to hide his shock. “How... is this even possible?”

“Absolute defense.” The First doesn’t look at him, continuing his way forward. “The sand protects me.”

The tightness of his lips shows that he’s not going to explain any further. Well, Damon doesn’t really care. He’ll just ask Sammy later. Though it’s probably just a very strange... and very useful mutation.

Damon prefers not to think about why the sand is swirling around The First’s legs, as if caressing him.

Silence begins getting on his nerves, but Damon has little idea what to talk about; and so he keeps silent, secretly hoping that The First will start the conversation himself.

And he doesn’t disappoint.

“Samantha mentioned you were working with Dawn, too.”

“Yeah,” Damon nods. “Kind of.”

“You are called ‘Dawn’...” The First says in a low voice. “But the symbol on your armor is a red cloud. Why?”

Unwittingly, Damon touches the insignia on his chest and shrugs. To be honest, he never gave it much thought. The armor was given to him by the organization, and he didn’t complain—it was quite durable, and it was all he needed.

In truth, Damon doesn’t consider himself a member of Dawn—he doesn’t care about their goals, doesn’t feel any unity with them, it’s nothing more than a mutually beneficial partnership. He certainly never wondered why they’d chosen dumb red clouds as their symbol.

Though...

“Payne mentioned something about clouds colored red. At dawn. He’s crazy about symbolism.” And just crazy in general, to be completely honest. Take his theory about the mystical origin of sombras, for example... just laughable.

The First nods. “People need to believe in something tangible. Idea alone isn’t enough.”

“What idea, seriously,” Damon grimaces. “I think Payne is just delusional. North is an outlaw, like myself, with nowhere to go. Flai’s a mutant, well, you know what it’s like. The others... they’re either idealistic fools like Sammy, or criminals, or only after money.”

“You’re not very loyal to them,” The First notes.

Damon shakes his head. “Not at all, heh. But if I dare go to the Federation territory again, I’ll be shot on sight, so I don’t have much choice. At least I’m not starving... and I’m doing what I love.”

“Blowing everything up.” Maybe it’s just Damon’s imagination, but he thinks he hears amusement in The First’s voice.

“You don’t understand the beauty of explosions, hm,” he says with certainty.

“Perhaps.” The First looks away. “Or perhaps I do.”

“Wait a second,” Damon says. “How d’you know? Samantha turned me in, huh?” and he grins.

The First shakes his head slightly. Looks at him—and this look sends a shiver through his body. That’s how a sniper looks at his target, a predator at his prey; and the realization hits suddenly—he won’t be able to escape or hide.

There’s nowhere to run.

“I know more about you than you do, Deidara.”

“For god’s sake,” Damon drawls, trying his best to maintain the carefree tone, even though his insides twist. “My name isn’t that difficult, hm. _Da-mon_. If you’ve got memory issues, fine, call me Dae.”

The First grunts quietly but says nothing more.

Well, even awkward silence might be better than listening to all this nonsense.

***

“Hey, they’re running away!” Damon doesn’t hide his surprise.

The sombras that were just about to attack, now are crawling back, baring their long, thin teeth, sticky saliva dripping on the sand; and they look so much like cowardly dogs that Damon barely stifles a laugh.

Usually it’s them inspiring fear, making you clutch your weapon nervously, look around—what if another creature jumps out from behind the rocks? One or two sombras don’t pose much of a threat, if you’ve got a couple grenades, a gun or even a knife; but if there’s at least five or six of them, you’re going to have a hard time.

Damon hates them—as does everyone, probably—and loves killing them.

But now, it seems, there won’t be any fight.

Damon begins to understand why Sammy sent The First with him. His personal sombra repeller, how nice of her.

“They feel the power,” The First says calmly. “They fear me. They should.”

And with that, he raises his hand swiftly, and the sand suddenly rises in a dense mass, envelops the creatures—and, following The First’s fingers that clench into a fist, crushes them, grinding the flesh and bones with an unpleasant crunch.

There’s satisfaction in The First’s eyes, almost animal thirst for blood, and something like regret; but this last thing is so vague, so barely noticeable that Damon isn’t even sure it’s really there.

In any case, he’s not going to ask anything. Damon jerks his shoulder, getting rid of the sudden tension—not fear, no—and says, fakely joyful, “Now that’s impressive, hm.”

“Thanks,” The First says in strange tone.

For some reason Damon thinks he hears disappointment in his voice.

“Deidara,” The First says, “wait.”

Damon doesn’t know why he obeys—but freezes, snarling, “I’m telling you for the hundredth time, my name is Damon!”

“You just think it is.” The First’s expression doesn’t seem to change much, but Damon notices his thin pale lips twist into a wry grin for a moment.

He rolls his eyes, even though this jerk won’t see his face behind the helmet; waves his hand, determined to ignore this nonsense.

He’s a mutant, after all—who knows what’s wrong with his brain. Maybe they’re all crazy. It’s not a big deal.

Though Flai, even if Damon rarely talks to her for a long time, seems pretty normal. But maybe she’s an exception. Who knows.

“So, uh... why did we stop?” he asks.

The First raises his open palm, as if telling him to shut up—and again, for no reason, Damon obeys.

“Listen,” The First says.

Damon looks around, confused, but does listen.

It’s quiet.

No wind, even—though winds are rare here. Other than that... nothing suspicious.

“I don’t hear anything,” he mutters in response to The First’s expectant look.

“Because you’re not listening.” He pauses for a moment, looking ahead, before continuing. “Danger.”

Damon clenches and unclenches his fingers nervously; his prosthetic hand is a little slow to react, and he thinks that he really should consult Sammy about it. But—later.

The First’s manner of speaking—abrupt, in short sentences—is incredibly annoying.

“What kind of danger? Explain, hm,” he demands.

The First, with the same indifferent look, places a hand on his helmet—almost right where the mouth is. Damon falls silent mostly because of surprise—obviously, it’s impossible to physically shut him up this way.

“I don’t like this piece of metal,” The First says. “It disrupts the communication.”

“If I take off my helmet, asshole, my brain will boil even before my skin and muscles burn.” Damon pushes his hand away—but The First manages to catch his wrist, squeezing so tightly that he feels the pressure even through the armor. Damon is almost certain that when he lets go, there’ll be marks of his fingers left on the steel. Just where does this strength come from; his fingers are thin, just like his hand, with bluish veins and bones clearly visible under the skin; and yet his grip is so hard.

Damon doesn’t manage to stifle a nervous chuckle, and confusion flickers in The First’s eyes.

“Reckless,” he says. “You’re always like that. Don’t anger me, Deidara. I don’t like repeating myself twice.”

“What a coincidence, huh, neither do I,” Damon grins. “But you still haven’t remembered my name.”

“Because it’s not yours.” The First looks at him seriously, frowning—a noticeable crease appears over the bridge of his nose. It looks weird, with him having no eyebrows, Damon thinks.

And he’s weird.

That much was clear from the start, but over the last couple hours The First has done and said too many _weird_ things; in a way that sometimes makes it hard to just call him a psycho and leave it at that. It feels like he knows more than he lets on; more than Damon or Samantha or anyone else can imagine.

This doesn’t apply to his desire to call Damon this strange, foreign name, of course.

What even is this ‘Deidara’—it sounds more like a girl’s name.

“Okay, let me go already.” Damon jerks his hand, and The First lets go with obvious reluctance, thin fingers lingering on his palm for a couple seconds.

When he pulls his hand away, Damon sees a holographic mark on the inside of his wrist, and doesn’t hold back his curiosity.

“What’s that?”

“Hm?” The First follows his gaze and turns his hand over, letting Damon see the pattern.

It’s a face of some enraged animal—and a number _one_ under it. Flai has a similar mark, only hers says _seven_ , Damon remembers. Interesting. Were these mutants branded like that? Or do these marks mean something else?

“It’s...” Damon squints, looking closer. “A raccoon?”

A strange feeling arises inside him, as if he’s forgotten something and is trying to remember—but he can’t, no matter how he tries. Damon frowns; he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this particular mark. Or has he? Admittedly, he never listened to Payne’s lectures well, but he might’ve mentioned something... or Flai, or Sammy... or anyone, really, even Sōsuke—the guy has so much junk with ‘history’, and sometimes he would even share some fun details about his findings.

“Yes,” The First replies. That answers the question alright.

“Got anything else to add?”

The First shrugs.

“Why? Try to remember it yourself.”

“What makes you think that I—” Damon begins, but The First turns away again, not bothering to look at him, and walks quickly toward the building that’s already visible in the distance. Damon has no choice but to rush after him.

No, he thinks, you won’t get away so easily. I’ll make you explain everything.

***

When they approach the abandoned research center, something makes them both stop at once.

It’s not even a sound, but something elusive, barely perceptible, chilling to the bone; close to fear, but not quite, and this _something_ , like quiet rustling of sand in the night desert, like movement of the wind in empty corridors, seems to be warning them: stay away.

“Do you hear it?” The First whispers just above his ear, and Damon thinks for some reason that his voice is too much like this _non_ -sound.

As if it’s him warning Damon.

“Yes,” he nods.

They still go on.

Through the broken down doors, they walk on the dirty floor covered in bloodstains—old and fresh.

Through the long corridors, lit by flickering emergency lights—that will soon die out, the energy is low; and, Damon just knows it, the sombras watch them from the dark corners, claws scratching against metal, but don’t dare to approach.

Something in The First frightens them, and it’s not surprising because he probably frightens everyone—but usually the sombras aren’t scared even of armies and combat machines.

Maybe, Damon thinks, and the thought slips away before he can grasp it and really think it through, The First is like sombras—but stronger, and they feel it. Maybe they aren’t even afraid—they consider him one of them, and so they let him pass.

Their first stop is the security room—the monitors are still working, but the backup generator most likely won’t last long.

There are several bodies, almost completely decomposed, against the far wall, and Damon is more than ever grateful that the helmet protects him from the smell. The First winces in disgust, pulling the cloth higher to cover his face.

“So sensitive,” Damon mocks, though he isn’t that sure how he would react.

The First ignores him, and Damon shrugs and walks to the monitors. Cameras might have caught something interesting... though there’s hardly anything interesting in people being eaten alive. Damon had seen it so many times that he’d lost count.

Though these bodies in the room, as far as he can see, don’t look very damaged by external influences. The sombras didn’t even eat much. Maybe these guys weren’t that tasty; Damon grins darkly and returns his attention to the cameras.

The first thing he does is look at the recordings in this room; he rewinds them to about three months ago, as Sammy mentioned. Like he expected. He presses his lips tightly, watching in disgust as a wave of sombras lunges at the cornered guards, biting into their flesh and tearing them apart—good thing he turned off the sound.

The First watches the screen with surprising attention. Almost as if he’s enjoying what’s going on there.

Damon taps his fingers on the monitor, annoyed.

On most of the other cameras, the recordings haven’t been preserved or are so damaged that it’s impossible to see anything. Several cameras in the corridors have captured more episodes of the bloodbath that went down here, and Damon fast-forwards through them.

“Wait.” The First touches his shoulder, and Damon flinches.

“What?” he snaps, angry at his own reaction.

“Rewind it. There was a person.” The First points to the monitor and immediately loses all interest in what’s going on.

Well, he probably doesn’t care much. At least he gave him a hint. Damon exhales slowly and follows the advice.

Indeed, there’s a man. It’s impossible to see his face, only his white hair stands out in the dark. And his lack of clothing. How weird; Damon grins bleakly.

Then he sees yet another weirdness—the man walks through the corridors past the creatures who are devouring the staff; and they don’t attack him, more than that, as soon as he approaches, they leave their prey and run away.

The First has the same effect on them.

Damon throws a quick glance at him, but The First still looks indifferent, as if this doesn’t concern him at all.

Alright. They can talk about this later.

The man walks into a room, escaping the camera. Cursing under his breath, Damon tries to find the camera that could have recorded that room—he hopes that there is a camera there. And that the recording is intact.

After about half an hour of searching, Damon finds what he needs—and with a triumphant exclamation, turns on the video. The First chuckles audibly, but he chooses to ignore him.

“Kill me—” No, the recording is slightly damaged, and the man’s voice sounds distorted; that must be the only reason it sends an unpleasant feeling through Damon. “Hey!”

The man grabs the guard who’s holding the gun to his forehead by the hand, squeezes it and repeats, “Kill me!”

The guard tries to free his hand, says nervously, “I’m not kidding, I will shoot,” but hesitates for some reason; and the man breaks down:

“They don’t want to kill me! Why? You! Kill me!” He grips the guard’s fingers. “Just fucking kill me, _kill me_ , kill—!”

The sound of the shot is almost deafening even from the recording.

Damon watches as the guard takes a step back, still clutching the gun—and the guy stands still. The camera angle shows it clearly: the shot nearly destroyed the back of his head, and yet he’s still not falling dead.

He raises his hand, slowly runs it over the back of his head, looks at the blood for a long time—and then laughs hysterically.

“I told you to kill me!” Damon doesn’t have the time to blink, as the man suddenly closes the distance between himself and the guard, slams his back into the wall. “Fuck, I told you— _to kill—me_!”

“B-but... what...”

With a disgusting sound, he snaps the guard’s neck; throws the body to the floor and walks away slowly, staggering. Then he falls down on his knees and laughs again.

“Fuck... why... I want to die too! Can you hear me?” He jerks his head up and looks directly in the camera, and Damon forces himself to stay still; it’s just a coincidence, this psycho didn’t even know there was a camera. “I want to die! Kill me! Please...” he laughs again, and it’s a truly mad laugh; Damon bites his lip, still watching. “Kill me, kill me, kill me—”

He repeats this over and over, and Damon feels his head begin to spin.

Sombras peek through the open door, but then rush away, as if the mere sight of this guy terrifies them.

“Sombras don’t come near him,” Damon says in a low voice. “It’s the same with you.”

The First doesn’t answer, only watches him strangely, as if studying him or waiting for something. For a moment it seems like his eyes are glowing; but then Damon realizes that it’s just the light of the screen reflecting. He shudders but forces himself to calm down—and looks at the monitor again.

In fast-forward, the strange man sits on the floor, clutching his hair and repeating something, for about a month; and Damon thinks with a mixture of surprise and fear: how did he survive without food or water? But on the other hand, he didn’t die after being shot in the head... damn mutants.

Then the man leaves, and eventually sombras flood into the room, wander around as if searching for something—for some reason ignoring the corpse of the guard. But after a while they leave as well.

For two months, the room remains empty.

Damon turns off the recording. They won’t see anything interesting here.

“A curious sight,” The First finally speaks.

“You know him?” Damon asks.

The First only shakes his head. He’s not very talkative, and it’s... annoying. Unnerving. And Damon feels that something is wrong.

“Alright then, hm.” He turns back, bends over the keyboard, copies the recording—Sammy or Payne will certainly like it, they love figuring out the mysteries of their fucked-up world. “Shall we continue our search?”

“There’s nothing more here.” The First steps forward quietly, coming close to him, and Damon jerks up. “Don’t be afraid,” The First’s voice sounds slightly mocking now. “I’m no longer your enemy.”

This isn’t calming at all. Damon pushes the weird anticipation back and straightens.

“I’d rather see for myself, hm,” he gestures around the room. “This strange mutant... What if he’s still here? And even if he’s not, we might find something else.”

The First chuckles quietly, clearly skeptical, but Damon doesn’t pay attention as he walks out of the room.

The First catches up in a split second, walking next to him; and though his presence still makes Damon a bit nervous, he’s also somewhat grateful, if only because this way the sombras won’t touch him.

And as always, The First is right.

That mutant seems to have disappeared completely; but for some reason, Damon is sure that this won’t be the last time they hear about him. That’s understandable. Someone like him is bound to show up somewhere else, and he’s not worth being concerned about—yet, at least.

They check the labs, but all they manage to find are only leftover samples, completely unsuitable for further use. Just in case, Damon downloads the information from those computers that are still intact; but he doubts that it’s what Samantha needs.

Well, since they haven’t found anything useful, this place is going to blow up. Damon grins happily and takes out the explosives, carefully and slowly secures them on the autopsy table. A little symbolism wouldn’t hurt—Payne would approve. Or not. Damon has no idea what’s going on in the guy’s head, but it doesn’t matter.

“You’re going to blow it up,” The First says suddenly.

Damon flinches. Here they go again. How does he do it? It’s like he’s here, but you completely forget about his presence, and almost get a heart attack whenever he speaks up again.

“Yeah,” Damon says, recovering from a momentary stupor. “Sammy gave her permission, don’t worry.” He laughs, and The First, surprisingly, smiles slightly in return—with just the corners of his mouth.

Wow, they almost make a decent team.

“Shall we follow the same route?” Damon offers, shouldering the bag of explosives. “I’ll even let you... _charge_ a couple rooms. If you behave, heh.”

The First shakes his head. “Still a fool.”

He says nothing else, but he’s not offended, that much Damon can see. It’s something else.

And perhaps this isn’t the time to figure it out; especially since The First does steal the pleasure from Damon, rigging the security room and the first-floor corridor—which is swarming with sombras.

He’s weird, contradicting himself at times, Damon concludes.

But it might not be that bad; at least he’s not boring.

“Wanna do it yourself, hm?” Damon winks, handing the detonator to him.

“You didn’t need these toys before,” The First looks at his hand with almost tangible contempt. “You’ve become weaker than I remember.”

Damon ignores his words again—he’s gotten somewhat used to his nonsense by now, it’s even a little amusing.

“Well, your call, but you’re missing out, hm. And now...” he grins, looking at the building, adjusting his visors, “time for the fireworks. Look closely!”

He clicks the detonator, and a second before the explosion, he hears The First say at the same time as him, “Katsu.”

_How the hell do you know this_ , Damon thinks nervously but doesn’t ask—it’s not important now.

What is—is the explosion, bright flashes visible even from this far, and the flame, bright red, unstoppable. And maybe it’s just his imagination, but Damon almost hears the sombras screech helplessly and furiously, rushing around the building, searching for escape and not finding it. Because everywhere is fire, everywhere is death; and in place of what dies, something new will be born.

To also die one day—and, Damon hopes, in a way just as _beautiful_.

No stars and galaxies that this romantic Sōsuke bloats about can compare to this—and even the imitation of a distant supernova exploding isn’t even close to the _real_ explosion which Damon created.

At just his word—the fire consumes everything.

And The First is standing next to him, just as spellbound; and Damon wants to turn to him for some reason and ask:

_‘Isn’t this art?’_

“Take off your helmet,” The First says suddenly.

Damon raises his eyebrow but again does as he asks; and again doesn’t understand why. There’s something in his voice that makes it impossible to _disobey_ , and it’s strange, almost madness.

Can insanity be contagious? In that case, Damon wouldn’t be surprised if he was crazy, too.

“So?” he looks at The First expectantly.

He says nothing and comes closer—too close.

And then—everything happens too quickly to understand.

The First kisses him—roughly, with half-closed lips, and the glow of the fire behind paints everything in orange and red hues.

It’s like a pretty and meaningless scene from a movie trailer—if the movies were still being made these days.

There’s no tenderness or passion in this kiss, only pressure and demand; and something like old, ingrained anger.

Damon responds after some time, awkwardly, hardly understanding why; but it seems like The First doesn’t need his reciprocation. It’s something one-sided, violent, to take out the feelings that have been boiling up inside him—the feelings Damon doesn’t quite understand.

For some reason it’s hard to stifle a nervous laughter.

The First pulls away after a few more moments, biting his lip one last time; gives him a long, intent look, and Damon shudders again at the sight of these empty, light eyes, rimmed with black.

“This isn’t goodbye, Deidara,” The First says.

For some reason Damon doesn’t correct him this time.

The First turns around, his battered gray cloak flailing around him, and walks slowly to the edge of the forcefield.

He steps outside, and Damon forgets to breathe for a second, even though he’s seen it before.

Bright sun, scorching everything around, seems to ignore him; without armor, without shields, with his head uncovered, The First is walking slowly, as if showing off, and merciless rays do not harm him.

_Yes_ , Damon thinks and touches his lips, smearing the blood, _this isn’t goodbye_.

When he looks up again, The First is already gone.

There’s only the sun and the sand, swirling near the ground.


End file.
